


To Be Devoted

by wingsofbadass



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, High Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 07:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofbadass/pseuds/wingsofbadass
Summary: Traveling side by side with Jean ever since their chance encounter at a tavern by the road had made this journey more bearable than he’d ever imagined, this journey –Swallowing thickly, Marco lowered his gaze. He had no right to think such thoughts. He was a nobody, after all, and he was traveling towards becoming nothing.----Or: how an ambiguous translation almost fucks everything up.





	To Be Devoted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pilindiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, my dear!  
> As soon as I saw this prompt, this whole story played in my head and I had such a great time writing it!  
> I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Many thanks go to the LOTR soundtracks and my self-control for not including "This forest is old. Old as balls."

There was something about the Elven messenger that drew Marco’s eye.

Admittedly, the plains they were riding through were just that – plain – and didn’t offer many sights that might have distracted him from his companion. The occasional tree or house sprinkled across the landscape might have been smoke for all the attention he paid them.

Jean, however, was a sight that didn’t seem to lose its appeal no matter how much time he spent taking it in. The hues of the wild lay in his features and Marco found himself wondering whether the Elves had breathed color into the world around them or breathed it in. His honeyed gaze was sharp and full of wisdom – a shocking contrast to his youthful appearance. In the long hair falling down Jean’s back, Marco saw countless types of grain and woods and soils; when the wind blew it his way, he saw the forests’ chestnut and when the sun was caught in its strands, he saw the wheat from the fields back home.

Marco’s mare gave a snort, as though having had enough of Marco’s poetically challenged thoughts. Quickly, he averted his gaze. Surely, Jean was aware of his staring, having not only the superior senses between the two of them but also a certain _something_ Marco couldn’t quite name. He might’ve called it magic once. But so far, Jean hadn’t made a point of catching him in his gaping or made any mention of it at all.

Ridiculously, Marco found himself wishing he would.

“It will be dark soon,” Jean announced a while later, his brows drawn together as he inspected the horizon as though looking for some sort of inscription. “We should find a place to rest for the night.”

They settled underneath the wide branches of a gigantic oak, where they bound their horses and unloaded their belongings. Marco saw Jean lay his palm against its bark, a gentle touch as if he meant to caress the old tree. The smile it drew on his face was the softest thing. After building a small fire and taking care of the horses, they let themselves rest by the warmth. Marco pulled off his boots with a groan, a little aware that it might make him seem little brutish to Jean, whose every word and movement was the height of elegance, but his desire to wiggle his toes a little was too strong.

“We’re getting closer to Ish-khajar,” Jean announced, a statement that seemed to lack its conclusion somehow. Instead of continuing however, he shoved a piece of bread into his mouth.

“It’s very old and beautiful, I hear,” Marco prompted. Having never been to these parts, he trusted Jean to guide him to their common destination. He knew way to Trost didn’t necessarily lead through the woods of Ish-khajar, but that it was the fastest.

A terrible little part of him wanted to take the longer way.

“I’ve never seen it,” Jean said and his gaze was unfocussed as he stared into the flames before them. In the warm, flickering light, he looked beautiful and more like a part of nature than ever. “It’s so old that the language it was named in is no longer spoken.”

“What does it mean? Ish-khajar?”

Jean blinked, leaving behind whatever he had been seeing, and looking back at Marco. “ _Forest of Giants_ , because the trees are enormous,” he explained, then gestured at the oak at his back. “This one is uncommonly large because we’re close to its magic. The closer we come to Ish-khajar, the bigger the trees will become.”

Unsure what to reply, Marco made a noise of awed acknowledgement. He was very curious to see this forest, but another part of what Jean had said tugged at his curiosity. If Ish-khajar was so very ancient, then how old was Jean? While the elf might have looked youthful to Marco’s human eyes, there was really no telling. Elves were immortal, he knew that, but he was having difficulty imagining Jean as having lived when his grandparents or maybe even his ancestors had.

It would probably be very rude to ask.

“How old are you?”

Jean was clearly surprised by this question. His lips curled in a handsome grin that made Marco’s cheeks burn with heat even with the fire this close.

“I am fifty-four years old,” Jean said with an air of smug pride, so Marco assumed it must have been a nice age to be, young and powerful, maybe even of some significance between his people. Whatever Jean saw in Marco’s face made him laugh then. “You don’t have the slightest idea what that means, do you?”

Abashed laughter spilled from Marco’s lips at being caught and he shook his head.

“How old are you, then?” Jean asked with a teasing tone, maybe unconsciously leaning closer to Marco. His scent was nothing Marco’s nose could recognize, but it was so lovely it made Marco’s heart ache for a wilderness he’d never known.

“I am twenty-six years old,” Marco confessed. Something delighted flickered in Jean’s eyes.

“Oh, so you reached maturity quite some years ago! I would not have guessed from the softness of your features.”

Embarrassed, Marco took a large gulp from his cup. He had what people called a boy’s face that he tried to cover with a man’s beard. The stubble he liked to wear wasn’t as long as others preferred it, but he had assumed it disguised his _soft features_ well enough, but Jean had not been fooled, apparently.

“I meant no offence,” Jean told him, softening his voice just a little. Meeting his gaze still revealed something playful, however. Their faces seemed very close, suddenly, Jean’s eyes very lingering. “Our kind – we appreciate … delicate features.”

For the first time in his life, Marco understood the claim that flattery made girls faint.

He felt breathless, caught in the intensity of Jean’s attention on him.

There could not possibly be any meaning behind this; no meaning for which Marco had been desperate for more than a fortnight now. Traveling side by side with Jean ever since their chance encounter at a tavern by the road had made this journey more bearable than he’d ever imagined, this journey –

Swallowing thickly, Marco lowered his gaze.

He had no right to think such thoughts. He was a nobody, after all, and he was traveling towards becoming nothing.

He raised his piece of cheese to his lips and stuffed it into his mouth as a whole. The longer he had to chew the better.

Jean cleared his throat. “Well, I have reached maturity as well, in case you were wondering.” He sounded disappointed, but Marco’s heart was too heavy now to find words that might have eased any pain. They continued their meal in silence and for the first time, the lack of conversation between them felt oppressive, like a strict master that forbade it.

Sleep did not come easy that night and when it did, it was filled with the sound of his mother’s voice and never-ending roads too long for his clumsy little childrens’ feet.

In the morning, they rose early, without allowing themselves to linger or rest for a bit longer. Jean was adamant that they could not risk having to spend the night inside of Ish-khajal. They would have to cross it swiftly, on foot while leading their horses since the woods were too dense to ride through.

Whatever unease had hovered between them in the evening, seemed to have cleared overnight. Jean leapt onto a branch of the oak and climbed up into the crown with offensive ease to look ahead.

“What do you see?” Marco yelled up to him while he strapped the last of his bags to his saddle.

“A truly horrifying sight!” Jean called back down, making Marco freeze. “An Ork of unparalleled hideousness! Oh, wait, it’s just some human I’m traveling with.”

“How very amusing.”

Jean hopped down into the grass with a grin, not a hair out of place.

“Let’s move.”

As they rode, Marco had the bizarre impression they were shrinking. Just like Jean had announced, the vegetation on their way seemed to grow larger and larger, dwarfing them in their magical magnitude. Their horses sensed the change as well, whickering nervously, and Marco began stroking his mare’s neck from time to time to keep her calm.

When the forest appeared on the horizon, it seemed no different from any other Marco had seen. Saying so made Jean give a thoughtful hum.

“It’s powerful, though,” he said after a moment’s silence. “I can feel its magic. It’s almost like it’s – alive.”

“Well,” Marco mused, “trees _are_ living beings. And so are the countless creatures that must live in it.”

Jean seemed ready to argue for a moment, his lips parting as if ready to pronounce trees inanimate and birds and rabbits as well. But in the end all he said was, “That’s not what I meant.”

Again, Marco felt the need to take a different way tug at his heart. He had told himself countless times that prolonging his inevitable fate would change nothing, would make everything only harder. This was now truer than ever, and yet he couldn’t help but dream. A longer way to Trost would mean more time to spend with Jean, more time to bask in his comforting, lively presence. Marco thought he might have given anything to get an eternity to live, to spend with Jean. An eternity of caresses and trust and laughter.

It was only when Jean brought his horse to a stop that Marco snapped out of his morose thoughts and refocused on the real world around him.

A ways before him, now in formidable size, the trees of Ish-khajar reached up towards the sky, their tops invisible to him, their trunks an impenetrable, thick field. It was breathtaking.

Marco descended from his ride and took a tentative step towards the tree line.

“Wait!” Jean called, clearly alarmed. Within seconds, he was by Marco’s side, curling his fingers around Marco’s elbow.

“I wasn’t about to go in without you,” Marco reassured him, smiling when relief bloomed across Jean’s face.

“Listen, I’m not sure what it is but,” Jean interrupted himself and chewed on his lower lip for a moment, looking at Marco like he was weighing how much to say, “this forest makes me uneasy. Something about these trees feels – wrong.”

Marco strained to keep the hope from his voice. “Do you want to go around?”

But Jean shook his head. “No, I don’t have the time.”

Of course. Marco’s heart sank. What a selfish fool he was. He was not the only one who had to get to Trost. The only thing he was alone in was the longing to never reach it. If only he wasn’t –

His train of thought was derailed when Jean’s hand slipped from his arm. Feeling lost, he mimicked Jean’s preparations for continuing their journey on foot, reaching for the reins and whispering reassuring words to his mare.

As soon as they’d entered Ish-Khajar, it felt as though the rest of the world had vanished. The green canopy above them had taken the place of the sky; the only sounds were those of the forest, leaves rustling and small animals scurrying and birds calling. Despite those mundane occurrences, Marco could immediately understand why these woods made Jean uneasy. There was an unfamiliarity that hit him deeply, as though he was looking at someone he’d known his whole life and suddenly found they didn’t look anything like he’d always thought. A constant low hum seemed to vibrate through the air. Marco felt reminded of entering a cathedral, where a reverent hush took possession of everyone regardless of belief.

“Jean,” he breathed, his voice laced with awed laughter, “it’s beautiful.”

Although he still looked worried, Jean smiled at him. “Beauty is everywhere in this world. It’s just that hideousness seems to draw the eye.”

“Do you see hideousness here?”

Jean pondered over his answer for a while, his eyes roaming over their surroundings as they walked, maybe trying to see beauty, maybe determined not to.

“It is not something I see. I feel it like I might feel the difference between cold water and warm tea on my tongue.”

Was that Elven magic? Or was it just an Elven way to express something that humans might have called disliking something? The more he spoke to Jean, the more Marco yearned to know about him.

“Is that feeling always there? Or just in here?”

“It’s particularly strong here. It was also strong when we met.”

Marco almost stumbled across a thick root in his path.

“Really?”

“When you asked me if I was going to Trost, I felt it, that traveling with you was the right path to take.”

Feeling warm, Marco let the moment wrap around them like a comforting quilt. Ever since the letter from Trost had arrived, he’d done what was required of him with a heavy heart. It was only thanks to Jean that he had had cause to smile at all, let alone feel at ease.

Deeper and deeper into the woods they walked, either talking softly or keeping a companionable silence. The reality of Ish-Kharaj faded from Marco’s mind. All he could focus on was Jean, his eyes, his sharp laugh, the delicate point to his ears, the grace with which he moved. If this forest was indeed hideous, then Jean was the beauty in it.

Marco was aware he was helplessly in love, but torturing himself over it had not changed his feelings.

If only they could last.

  


***

  


“There is one thing I do not understand about humans,” Jean told him as they rested between the gigantic roots of a tree Marco could not identify.

Marco smiled. “Only one?”

“How can you be with a person and then with another?” Jean asked, stubbornly ignoring Marco’s interruption.

“What do you mean?”

Jean made an impatient hand gesture. “You know, _be_ with someone, love them.”

Trying to hide his heated cheeks, Marco made a point to inspect the length of his hair which had grown longer than ever on his journey. He had heard that Elves considered love and marriage and consummating love all to be the same thing. “Some people don’t feel … very attached to their, uh, lovers. They are after the physical pleasure only.”

At that, Jean looked skeptical. “Physical pleasure? But how can there be if there is no – attachment?”

The question made Marco think of his mother. “Sometimes it is only one-sided. A person might feel very intensely about their lover while those feelings are not returned.”

“You humans are cruel.”

Marco answered that with a hollow laugh. “That is true.”

“Is there,” Jean began, sounding careful, “a person you are attached to?” He looked very young, then.

“No. There is also nobody I’m – not attached to.” Jean laughed at that. “I wouldn’t want it to be like that. Or to leave a girl with child that is doomed to a bastard life.”

“What’s a bastard?”

Marco swallowed. He watched a small bird hop over the floor nearby, searching the soil for food. “An illegitimate child, one that is born of a physical union with no marriage.”

He had expected Jean to exclaim again about coarseness of humans, but to his surprise, Jean was quiet. Just when he was about to ask what he was thinking, the floor began vibrating below them. Their gazes met. At once, they were on their feet, packing up and untying the horses. The vibrations grew stronger with every moment.

“What do you think that is?” Marco asked, slightly breathless from his effort to keep the animals calm enough to walk forward.

“I don’t know and I am not eager to find out.”

The earth kept shaking under their feet, a rhythmic palpitation of the land that was soon accompanied by deafening _booms_. Jean looked scared, which was almost worse than the unknown tremors. After a particularly loud crash, Jean’s horse reared and, having slipped the reins from his grasp, bolted away.

The source of whatever was happening was impossible to make out. Absurdly, it seemed like it came from every direction, from every tree, from the ground itself. Marco’s crazed heart was the only thing louder than the echoing – it was a realization that came too late.

A gargantuan foot smashed into view to their right.

Horrified, Marco froze in place. With a panicked whinny, the second horse wrenched loose and fled into the thicket.

“Wha–”

“Run!”

Jean’s hand snatched at his and then they were running through the woods, heedless of the direction or anything else. Marco couldn’t think. What _was_ that? What could possible have a foot this large? A foot, moreover, that looked awfully like a human foot.

Soon, it became apparent that Marco could not keep up with Jean, neither in speed nor in stamina. He stumbled repeatedly, only staying on his feet because Jean was still holding his hand and dragging him along. Marco tried to wheeze out Jean’s name, but it either went unheard or ignored.

What they now realized were footsteps were still behind them, in heavy, sluggish pursuit. They were coming closer, catching up. Driven by a terrible curiosity, Marco glanced back over his shoulder at the creature and caught a glimpse of what looked like a giant, naked human, looking fully grown and infantile, determined and mindless at once. And then he fell.

Sweaty as it was, his hand slipped from Jean’s and Marco crumpled to the ground.

“Marco!” In his speed, Jean had continued several steps on and now came back to his side, tugging at his arm. “You have to get up.”

With his lungs burning, Marco could only shake his head as he lay shaking in the forest dirt. Maybe it was better like this. He wasn’t supposed to be alive anyway. There was no place for him in this world.

Over the rushing of blood in his ears, Marco heard a sound that had become familiar since he’d met Jean: arrows clattering in his quivers. When he looked up, he saw Jean standing over him with his bow drawn, two arrows waiting to be let loose. Fear tightened his chest. Jean.

When the creature was so close Marco could see repulsive saliva drip from its open maw, Jean finally let those arrows fly, sending them into the giant’s left eyeball with amazing accuracy. The injury only stopped it for a moment, however. Now smoking out of its eye, it advanced on them again.

“What?” Jean bellowed and reached back to produce four more arrows. In a fast, fluid motion, he showered the creature’s abdomen in arrows. Again, it seemed to have no effect aside from producing thick smoke.

“Jean,” Marco croaked, trying to shove himself up. “Jean, run.”

The glare Marco earned for the suggestion was like a knife cut.

“If you are staying, so am I.”

An understanding passed between them as they looked at each other, Marco kneeling on the ground, Jean standing before him like he meant to shield him with his body. This devotion might have been new, but it ran deep. Tears welled in Marco’s eyes as he felt the sentiment that was the very reason he was here. He thought of his mother whose life he wanted to protect at the cost of his own. And here Jean was, willing to throw away his own eternity for a life that was already lost.

Whatever change Jean saw in Marco’s face, it made him draw a new arrow and fire it at the creature’s hand, just descending towards them. Marco struggled to his feet with a grunt and drew his sword.

“I will make it fall,” he shouted and strode forward.

Distracted by Jean and his rapidly coming arrows, the giant allowed Marco to pass between its feet easily. He lost no time; swinging wide, Marco began slicing at its heels and hoping it would fell the creature. Immediately, steam began billowing out from the wounds he produced and obscuring his vision. Although he could feel the sword sinking into its flesh, he didn’t seem to be able to truly injure it. It was healing itself.

With a yell of frustration, Marco stabbed his sword forward, plunging it deep into its ankle. And it buckled. His arms shook with the strain as he yanked the sword out only to sink it into its other heel, but it made the creature come to its knees. So it wasn’t completely invulnerable. He had no way of knowing where Jean was or what he was doing, but there nothing to do but try. Marco continued to slice at its flesh, hoping to cut it someplace that would not heal or maybe be fatal.

By the time he saw that Jean was standing on the giant’s skull, his whole body ached and his blade was nearly dull.

“ _What are you doing?_ ”

The panicked scream tore out of Marco before he could help it. With a sharp motion that threw Jean off, it directed its attention at Marco. He stood panting, watching a monstrous hand coming towards him, and yet could only think of Jean.

“ _Jean?_ ” he cried, heart trembling in fear for his friend.

There was no reply.

Thick strong fingers wrapped around Marco’s body, crushing him instantly. Yelling out in pain, he felt the sword drop from his grip. It was over. He was being hoisted up into the air, close to the creature’s face as though it wanted to get a close look at him. Only when it opened its mouth grotesquely wide did he realize it was going to eat him.

“ _NO!_ ”  

That voice was the only thing that cut through the pain Marco felt until the fingers around him suddenly loosened their grip. The next moment, he crashed to the ground, still wrapped in the giant hand that was now lifeless. Sobbing, he fought himself out of the deadened fist and crawled out onto the forest floor. Looking up, he found Jean standing atop the creature’s back, panting heavily with Marco’s sword in his hands. Its neck was sliced open, a huge chuck of its flesh peeled away and hanging disgustingly to the side.

When Marco called out Jean’s name, the sword fell from his grip. Lacking grace and agility for the first time since Marco had met him, Jean dropped down and stumbled his way over to where Marco was lying in the dirt. His hands flew to Marco’s cheeks to cradle his face like it was the most precious thing on this earth.

Jean’s thumbs were gentle as they wiped at Marco’s tears. He swallowed. “I have never been so scared in life.”

“But you killed it. You killed it,” Marco babbled in awe, clutching at the fabric over Jean’s chest.

“That was not the thing that scared me, my love.”

The words burned in Marco’s chest, wonderful and terrifying and so unfair. Why had he found this now, when his days were numbered?

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say. “I’m so sorry.”

Jean’s lips were soft on his, unbearably soft. The comfort of those kisses were not enough to drown out the pain in his chest, and so he pulled Jean closer, kissed him harder. Jean made a small sound and deepened the kiss, meeting his fervor and need for ardent closeness.

“We have to leave,” he gasped against Marco’s mouth eventually, without pulling away. “There must be more.”

The was more, so much more Marco needed to say. But he nodded and let himself be pulled up.

  


***

  


Four days. That was how long Marco endured Jean’s unbridled happiness.

After making it out of Ish-Khajar without another direct encounter with its giant inhabitants, Marco and Jean continued on their way towards Trost as before. With the only difference being that they were now slowed down by their lack of horses and inability to stop touching each other. Countless kisses had them stop in the middle of the empty road, countless whispered words of affection that led to yet more kisses. In the mornings, they were loath to leave each other’s warmth and stayed in their makeshift beds for longer than advisable, talking and laughing.

Their touches, having started out as caring and comforting after their ordeal in the forest, soon grew heated. Any excuse to be close was welcome, any exploration of the other’s body hungry, and when they chased their pleasure together, Marco swore he felt immortal as well.

“After you are done with your business in Trost,” Jean started one evening as they sat around a rather pitiful fire, “where do you plan to go? Back to Jinae?”

Marco’s stomach dropped. Clearly seeing the devastation on his face, Jean sat up straighter. He didn’t demand an explanation, but Marco knew he could no longer keep his truth from Jean.

“I will not be leaving Trost.”

Not having expected that, Jean blinked at him for a moment. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “After delivering my King’s message, I will have to return home with a reply. But I could return and we could–”

“We can’t.” Getting the words out around his tight throat was a struggle.

Hurt flickered wildly over Jean’s face. His eyes searched Marco’s face for a lie or maybe he was looking at him all in a new light. “You said would not be like other humans. You said you would not do that to anyone.”

With his heart burning, Marco grasped for Jean’s hands, relieved when he was not pushed away.

“That was not a lie,” he told Jean, voice trembling. “You are the one for me.”

“Then why –”

Steeling himself, Marco said the words. “I must die, Jean.”

But Jean was shaking his head. “It does not matter to me. You are young, we still have so many years together.”

It hurt, how wonderful these words were, how much he yearned for this life Jean was envisioning. He wanted it all, but he had an obligation.

“No, no,” Marco rasped, trying to hold himself together. “It’s that – there is something you don’t know about me.”

And so he confessed what only he knew.

“I’m a bastard. My father – he never intended to marry my mother. He left her and never looked back. I never knew who he was until a letter came to us, demanding I appear at court in Trost. It said I’m the natural-born son of the King and that I would be expected to take my place as the Prince. And that if I failed to answer the summons, my mother would pay the price for my crime.”

Jean looked stricken, but remained silent. He reached out his arms and pulled Marco in close, holding him tightly. 

The way Jean didn't seem to think less of him loosened something in Marco's chest.

“It took me a while to find out to find out why they wanted me after all this time. The King has two high-born sons, but the elder of the two has fallen ill. Should he die, it would make me the next one in line for the throne, since the younger son my junior.”

“They plan to kill you,” Jean whispered, his voice dead.

Hearing Jean say it drove fear deep into Marco’s heart, as though the words were truer now that they had been spoken out loud.

“I cannot let my mother –”

Jean’s hold on him tightened. “No. Your mother will not die and neither will you.”

Marco shook his head, mystified. “There is nothing you can do!”

“You will not die!” Jean grabbed hold of Marco’s shoulders to look at him, shaking him slightly. “I _feel_ it. Just like  I felt about you before, just like I felt about Ish-Khajar. You have to trust me, my love.”

“Of course I trust you.”

Jeans breath was hot on his lips. “Then do not fear.”

  


***

  


The morning light was bright in Jean’s chambers when Marco stirred. Beside him, Jean was stretched out on his back, his silky hair spread across the sheets, his face peaceful. Happiness spread warmly through his chest at the sight and he brought himself closer, nudging his nose against the soft, warm skin of Jean’s neck. The scent of his skin was a comfort Marco never wanted to live without again. 

A knock on the door startled Jean awake and Marco from his pleasant thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Jean, but the human woman is demanding we wash the mushrooms," came an outraged sound from the other side of the door. 

Marco groaned pitifully, while Jean just laughed at him.

"We will be there shortly," he called out to the offended elf outside, then pressed his lips to Marco's. "Good morning."

Chasing after his lovers lips, Marco hummed warmly. "I don't want to be awake yet."

He felt Jean's smile against his jaw, on his neck. "Not even for your mother?"

"What could possibly happen to her in your realm?" Marco sighed and dug his fingers into Jean's hair, holding him close while hot kisses wandered down to his chest. "I don't want to be awake."

"Not even for me?"

Jean kissed the spot over Marco's heart. Marco laughed, nearly delirious with happiness. 

"Maybe for you."

He was devoted, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and especially comments would be an amazing Christmas present, right? ;)
> 
> Or come say hi at Tumblr or Twitter, where I'm also wingsofbadass!


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